FIC: The Body Found, 6/8
One Month Back
They decide Wilson can go home after four weeks in the hospital. Foreman runs the final tests that House has requested - extensive bloodwork, a final CT, and a chest X-ray to make sure the respiratory infection has cleared. He draws up discharge papers himself and carries them over to Wilson's room, where Wilson is sitting in the armchair by the bed.
He flinches when Foreman walks in the door. "Sorry," he says, ducking his head.
"It's all right," Foreman says. He knows the way to talk to Wilson these days is to be forthright and careful; it's the way Foreman would talk to a particularly bright child. "I have your discharge papers."
Wilson nods. His hands are pulled up into his sweatshirt sleeves, so instead of trying to hand the papers over, Foreman lays them on the table next to Wilson.
"You just need to sign down at the bottom, by House's signature," Foreman says. "And he's got all of your medication and everything settled."
"Thanks," Wilson says. He doesn't talk very much, and when he does, it's hard to hear him. The television is on overhead, but the sound is barely up. When Foreman looks up, he sees the weather channel, and he wonders how long Wilson's been watching that.
Foreman pauses at the door. He has somehow become Wilson's primary care physician, over the last few weeks, because Chase still turns a little green whenever Wilson is mentioned and Cameron and House don't seem to be speaking. House, being House, is overseeing everything, but from a distance, and for once that seems to be very wise. They're all probably too involved in Wilson's case to be the best physicians possible, but then again, the diagnoses are set - in all arenas but one.
"You know," Foreman says, "it might not be a bad idea for you to talk to someone before you leave." Wilson looks up, doesn't say anything, but seems puzzled. "I can get Dr. Roberts over here."
Wilson's eyelids flutter. "Psych consult?"
"Not a consult. I'm not suggesting we should keep you here," he says, because he doesn't actually think that would be a good idea, in part because House would kill Foreman for even suggesting it. "But you could talk with him, maybe set something up." Wilson shrugs, not meeting Foreman's eyes. Foreman sighs. Mental health help is usually a hard sell. "OK, think about this like a doctor," he says. "Medically, I have no problem releasing you to House's care, because he's an ass but he's an extremely good doctor. Physically, you'll be fine. But, like I said, House is an ass, and it is my opinion that you could benefit from some care that's not, exclusively, physical."
"Not yet," Wilson murmurs. When he looks up, he has the smallest of smirks, just for a second. "I am thinking like a doctor," he says. "I have to get back on my feet before I can go through anything more."
There is some logic to that, too, so Foreman just nods. "But once you're better -" he says, and Wilson nods and looks down again.
"Thanks, Foreman," he says.
In the hall, Foreman pauses at the nurse's station. If this were Wilson from before the kidnapping, he'd have no trouble believing him. Wilson was organized and sure. Wilson, now, is uncertain and, at worst, simply a kid willing to follow House's orders. And Foreman has no confidence in getting House's support for Wilson needing psychological care.
He picks up Wilson's chart and starts to make a note for follow-up care, then realizes everything he writes, House will read. Instead, he goes to his office and closes the door, then dials Henry Roberts. "It's Eric Foreman," he says. "I need to make an appointment in, say, three months, for a patient of mine."
One month back
House comes to his room and walks beside Wilson's wheelchair as Cuddy pushes him out. They go out a side entrance, right into the patient and visitor garage, and House's car is waiting for them. Wilson knows he's going home with House, and that House lives in a new place, but until the moment he gets out of the wheelchair it doesn't seem possible. He lets Cuddy hug him good-bye and he takes a seat in the car. He's not carrying anything because he doesn't have anything to take home, other than the medications that House has in a white plastic bag.
Wilson is exhausted just by riding in the car. The city flickers by outside his window, but he can't look at it. It's too much, too fast. He feels carsick. When House pulls into an underground garage and says, "OK, time to go," it's all Wilson can do to get out of his seat.
House gathers the medications from the backseat and takes off, but Wilson stays leaning against the car. I can't, he thinks, and he's not sure if he's too tired or too frightened to move. He hasn't been anywhere with this much space for a very long time. It is very quiet in the garage, and when he looks down, all he sees is slick gray concrete, and he feels sick to his stomach.
It takes House a minute to double back for him. "Come on," he says, putting his hand on Wilson's arm. Wilson puts his arm around House's waist and House helps him over to the elevator. Inside, Wilson rests against House, too tired to care about how much they're touching or where. They go up two floors and Wilson lets House steer him down a hallway and then into his condo, where House props him against the wall by the door.
"You're going to be no fun," House says, panting a little.
"Sorry," Wilson murmurs. He turns against the wall so he can see the room. The place is furnished almost exactly like House's last place, only with more stuff. Familiar stuff. "Hey -"
"Welcome to your new home," House says. He hangs his jacket in the hall closet, which also seems to have a bunch of very familiar jackets in it.
"I live here?"
"Well, your stuff's been living here for a year," House says, shrugging. "And your money, I might add."
Wilson can't really summon the energy to find out more about that, so he just nods. So much has changed. "Where's my bed, then?"
"This way."
House offers an arm, again, and Wilson takes it. They walk through the living room, past House's piano and Wilson's couch from his second marriage. The hallway takes them past a bathroom and then a painting that Wilson's brother had given him a few years ago for Hanukah. They stop at the second door on the right and House opens it, then leads Wilson in.
It's a nice bedroom. No, actually, it's a great bedroom, like something out of a magazine. The bed is in a dark-stained sleigh frame and has a thick, satiny green comforter and several matching pillows in green and gold and blue. There's a window, and its drapes match the bedspread. Though the floor is dark wood, there are two woven mats by the bed. Wilson's antique armoire is sitting to one side, next to the window; his flat-screen television is mounted to the wall directly across from the bed. On the dresser, there's a tray with a candle and a few smooth stones, and there are matching lamps on matching bedside tables at the head of the bed. It's a nice room, and a little showy, particularly for House's taste.
"You did this?"
House shrugs. "I had some help from the nice folks at Pier One, and Cuddy, who said you couldn't leave the hospital until I made sure the bed ruffle matched the throw pillows." He pulls away from Wilson and walks to the bed, then pulls back the comforter. There are three thin blankets underneath. "Should be warm enough," he says.
Wilson feels heat in his eyes. He looks away. "Thank you," he says.
"Hey, don't thank me," House says, "thank the nice people at American Express who've never cancelled out your card."
"I mean it," Wilson murmurs. "House, really."
"It's fine."
He has to help Wilson into bed, and Wilson, again, just can't be embarrassed. He's too tired, and now he's in the most comfortable bed in the entire world. The pillow seems to suck his head down, and Wilson can barely keep his eyes open. House turns off the light, leaving the room in grayish daylight, and says, "Yell if you need anything. Or there's a phone over there, you can call Cameron." As he walks out, he catches the door.
"House!"
He looks back in, immediately, and Wilson is alarmed by his own yell. "What? What's wrong?"
It takes him a second. "Don't close the door," he says, and House nods.
"Yeah, of course," he says. "Sorry about that."
House leaves the door open wide, and Wilson can hear him walk back down the hall, can hear him picking up the phone and muttering to someone. Probably Cuddy, probably letting her know they made it home with only a minor meltdown. Wilson closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the comfort of the bed and the half-dark room. Home, he thinks, but he can't quite believe it.
Five Weeks Back
For the first week that he's out of the hospital, Wilson doesn't do much. He shuffles from the bed to the couch when House prods him; he eats what House puts in front of him; he nods in all the right places when House sits on the bed beside him to watch television. But he's disengaged, just a guest, just barely there. He spends too much time wrapped up in blankets. House begins to worry, against his own nature. He can diagnose the problem easy enough.
He calls Cameron while Wilson is sleeping. "I need you to come over," he says.
"What?"
They are speaking again, though barely. Cameron hasn't forgiven him for "abandoning" Wilson at the beginning of his stay at Princeton-Plainsboro, and House hasn't forgiven Cameron for being so stupid as to think he actually didn't care. But, being the most oversensitive person he knows also makes her the most sensitive person he knows, and this is what Wilson needs, right now. A shoulder to cry on.
"It's Wilson," House says.
"Is he all right?"
"No," House says. "He's miserable." He describes Wilson's symptoms as best he can: lethargy, reduced verbal interaction and appetite, difficulty sleeping but the desire to do it all the time.
"He's depressed," Cameron says, in a well-duh voice that she must have picked up from House. He'd feel pride if it weren't so completely annoying.
"Yeah, caught that," House says.
"So why are you calling me? Call Dr. Roberts or Dr. Stone. I'm sure they'd fit him in -"
"He doesn't need to talk to a stranger," House insists. He can barely get Wilson into the living room; getting him back into the car and over to the hospital at this point would involve hiring movers and possibly someone with a tranquilizer dart. "I thought a familiar face might cheer him up."
Cameron pauses, and House clenches his fist. "OK," she says after a moment, and House pushes his fist against the wall, a very quiet celebration of victory. "Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Fine," House says. "And bring muffins. He likes the blueberry ones."
That's a lie, of course; Wilson is still eating pre-packaged food from the hospital, a diet that won't mess up his still delicate system in any way and that's easy for House to monitor. The last thing they need is to get his potassium out of balance while they're still trying to cure this whole starvation mess. But the muffins will be a good break for House, who's been eating the hospital stuff right along with Wilson, too lazy to make two dinners.
He walks back to Wilson's room and peeks in; Wilson is curled on his side, facing the open door, his eyes open, the blanket over him. "Hi," he says, looking up.
"You're awake."
"Yep."
House nods. "I just talked to Cameron. She's going to drop in tomorrow. Visiting hours."
Wilson's eyes flutter closed, just for a moment. "I don't really feel up to Cameron, yet," he says. "Could she wait a while?"
"Well," House says, walking in. He sits on the far side of the bed and leans back against the headboard. "I'm lying. She's actually coming to see me, but she's going to want to see you, too. No stopping the Cameron Caring Train."
Wilson groans and turns over, in a complicated, twisting movement, until he's facing House. "Fine," he says. "I'll fake sleep."
"You can run, but you can't hide," House says. "And actually, I'm not confident you can run, right now. You were wobbly this morning."
Wilson grunts. "By the way," he says. "Your leg."
House nods. They haven't talked about this yet, somehow. "Tried that whole Ketamine thing again. This time, it took."
"Huh." House thinks that's going to be it, that this is all the talk they'll have until Wilson's up and around and able to requisition House's medical records - at which time they'll have to have a Big, Serious Talk. He reaches for the television remote and turns it on, grateful that the TiVo is already recording General Hospital. He turns to set the remote back on the end table, on his side - where it belongs - and while he's turned he feels Wilson's hand land, just lightly, on his right thigh. House sets the remote down and turns back, looks down at Wilson, who is looking right ahead. He taps his fingers just over the old line of the surgical scar.
"Can you feel that?" he asks.
"Yeah," House says.
"Does it hurt?"
"No." It's still a surprise, sometimes. He still favors that side, still has a tiny, illogical fear that a wrong step or a careless twist is going to set off the pain again, that it's like a bad wire, temporarily patched, just waiting for a new jolt to break it apart again.
Wilson's hand curls, slowly, into a fist, and then slides back to the bed. "What happened?" he asks, and House has a flicker of fear, thinks maybe Wilson has slid back into confusion. "I'm missing more than a year, House. What happened, while I was gone?"
House takes a quick breath, then a slow one. "Life went on," he says. Wilson nods, just slightly. His knuckles brush against House's leg. "It wasn't the same."
"It still isn't," Wilson murmurs. His eyes are closed when House looks over, but he knows he isn't asleep.
"Wilson -" he starts, but he doesn't have anything helpful to say. His skin is still troublingly pale against his green sheets. House reaches over and touches his neck, checking his pulse, feeling his skin for fever or chill. Nothing is out of the ordinary, until Wilson's hand moves up from the bed and closes around House's fingers. "Hey," House mutters, but Wilson doesn't move, just presses House's hand to his own neck, then over to his shoulder. House sighs, feeling uncomfortable, but doesn't pull back. Wilson pets his hand, just once, then squeezes his wrist, as if trying to pin his hand there, and finally House squeezes his shoulder just slightly. He leaves his hand there until he's sure that Wilson is asleep, and even then, it's not so hard to keep it in place. If this is what Wilson needs, it's a lot easier to deal with than having Cameron come over.
Six Weeks Back
House stays home with Wilson for the next week, too, even though it's boring. He catches Wilson up on most of the plot of General Hospital - several back issues of Soap Opera Digest taken from the nurse's lounge will fill in the rest - and most of the hospital gossip, too. In the mornings, after House gets back from his run, he makes Wilson go through the complicated physical therapy routine that the evil bastards in PT have recommended for him. Wilson's getting a little stronger, a little more steady. House stops worrying that he'll fall in the shower. During the second week, House eases off on his hospital diet, satisfied by the results of some bloodwork he shuttles in one morning, and starts working to simply fatten Wilson up.
"So I can eat - anything?"
House shrugs. "Don't break out a bowl of salt to celebrate, but yeah. You're cleared for take off." He rubs his hands together. "Chinese?"
Wilson blushes, just slightly. House can't figure out if he does it more now than he used to, or if it's just that he's so pale it shows up like paint on his skin. "Actually," Wilson says, "I thought I could cook. Maybe."
House smiles. "Knock yourself out," he says, then pauses. "Though unless you can work wonders with a can of green beans and some really old Bisquick, you might want to hold off on that until I can get some groceries." Wilson nods, and tucks his hands back into the sleeves of his sweatshirt. "Or, tell you what," House says. "We can order them tonight and have them here first thing tomorrow."
Wilson smiles.
It takes them two hours to order groceries, because Wilson is very quiet at first - "whatever sounds good," he says over and over - and then too talkative by the end - "beets! I could roast those, and with a little bit of dill..." The final total is obscene, well over what House usually pays in a month for food, but he puts in his credit card number gladly. Seeing Wilson engaged by anything is gratifying, and that it's cooking - well, old habits die hard.
House runs the next morning but lets Wilson sleep in, for once. He needs a break from the PT, anyway. When the doorbell rings, House is just coming out of the shower; Wilson's door is open, and he seems to still be asleep, so House grabs a robe and answers the door.
"Hey," he says, knocking on Wilson's door. "You've got food to unload."
Wilson gets up amiably and starts to unpack the groceries while House dresses. By the time he returns to the kitchen, almost all of the bags are unpacked, and Wilson is trying to empty a new sack of flour into a large Tupperware container. "So what's for breakfast?" House asks.
"McDonald's, for you," Wilson says. "Cuddy called. They need you at the hospital."
House frowns. "You talked to Cuddy?"
Wilson shakes his head. "Machine got it."
That makes sense; Wilson won't go near the phone. "You can answer it, you know," House murmurs. "Your place, too."
Wilson shrugs. "I figured it was for you."
House walks out and listens to the message, then calls Cuddy back to confirm that he's actually needed. He is. They have two cases going down the tubes, far more than his little scattered team can handle. House finds his shoes and pulls them on, then goes back to the kitchen. Wilson is drinking a glass of orange juice and staring at the open cupboards. "Why don't you come with?" House asks. "We can get that final blood count I want."
Wilson doesn't look over, just blinks very slowly. "I think I'll stay here," he says, both hands on his glass. "If that's OK?"
House shrugs. "Suit yourself," he says. He leaves Wilson there, staring at all the food.
He calls around five to say he won't be home for dinner. "Pick up, Wilson," he says to the machine. "It's me. Come on." He waits. "Fine. I won't be home for dinner --"
Wilson's voice is thick with sleep. "I figured," he says. House is a little surprised he's answered. "I thought I could maybe make waffles tomorrow, if you want."
"Uh, yeah, I want," House says, just as Cameron and Chase walk in. "Go back to sleep. I gotta go."
Chase hands him a chart, and House glances at the results. They're just what he's been expecting. "Get him -"
"Foreman's already on it," Chase says. "You were right."
"Words I never tire of hearing. I'm thinking of getting a tattoo."
Cameron rolls her eyes. "Plenty of room for it on your ego," she says. Chase starts toward the conference room, but Cameron doesn't move. "Was that Wilson? Is he coming in?"
"Yes it was, and no he isn't," House says. "Don't take it personally, though, I'm sure he's really avoiding Cuddy, not you."
"When is Wilson coming back?" Chase asks. "Or, I guess, how is he coming back? Dr. Chen's pretty well settled in."
"Wilson was there first," House says. For him, that settles the whole discussion. Wilson was there first. It's only fair. He understands that the world may not see it this way, but he thinks, in the end, fairness will prevail. It's Wilson, for Chrissakes.
Then again, things don't always go his way; it never hurts to start checking things out early. House goes to Cuddy that afternoon. "When Wilson comes back, I think you should get him a new couch."
Cuddy looks up from her paperwork. "Is he ready to come back?"
House shrugs. "Maybe not yet," he says, thinking of Wilson's quiet voice and still often shaking hands. "But I wanted you to have some warning, so you could get the couch ordered. I'm thinking some kind of treated leather. Something ostentatious but also easy to clean puke off of."
She sets down a file folder. "When he's ready, you should have him come talk to me."
House's eyes narrow. "What are you going to tell Chen?"
"House -"
"I mean, she's gotta know her days are numbered."
Cuddy shakes her head. "I can't fire Chen just because Wilson is back."
"Uh, yeah, you can," House says. "I know she doesn't have tenure. And Wilson, Wilson like invented tenure."
"Wilson lost his tenure," Cuddy says. She says it quietly, but House hears it just fine.
"You can't -" he starts, surprised at the vehemence in his own voice.
"House," she says, both of her hands up. "He was gone for more than a year. His medical license has lapsed. There's not a lot I can do."
"So that's just - it?" Cuddy's eyes are wide but not sad, just sort of blank. This is her coldest administrative look, and one that House is used to getting for his own requests. But this is for Wilson. "He gets kidnapped, through no fault of his own, and for that he loses his job? I thought you put him back on payroll for the insurance."
She nods. "I did what I could. And, look, when he wants to come back, I'll find a way. He can work with Chen, or I can make an opening on the administrative side." She sighs. "You know I'll do whatever I can on this, for him. You know that."
"Yeah, because this has all really heightened my faith in your friendship," House snaps. He leaves without saying anything else.
In the hall, he stands for a minute, surprised to find himself winded. His fists are clenched. He looks down at them, slowly uncurls his fingers. OK, he thinks. Whatever. She'll come around. He's made Cuddy change her mind a hundred times before, about things way less obviously logical than this. He cracks his knuckles and starts toward his office. There's time. Wilson isn't ready to come back yet, not by a long shot, and House needs to make sure his medical license gets re-instated before any of this can happen. He'll call Stacy. Hell, he'll call the surgeon general if he has to. This is just not going to fly.
Two Months Back
Wilson doesn't think about them anymore. Hardly at all. He gets up in the morning in a comfortable bed and it seems normal. It seems like this has always been the way. The clock radio next to his bed plays softly; he never wakes to silence. When he gets out of the bed, he goes to the window, which is mid-sized and no longer seems huge. He leaves the room and no one stops him. He can take an hour in the bathroom if he wants, he can stand in the shower until the water runs cold, he can brush his teeth eight times a day and no one stops him.
Which is not to say he's alone. He's not. When he leaves his room he can turn right instead of left, go to House's room instead of the shower. He can sit on the edge of House's bed, lean against House's headboard, sometimes even fall back to sleep there if he wants. House doesn't say anything about it, other than the occasional grumble if Wilson accidentally nudges him. House's breathing is better than the clock radio. It soothes him.
He knows this is weird and he knows that soon enough time will have passed that House will push him away, make a crack about big boys sleeping in their own beds or something equally slighting and cruel, and Wilson will know it's gone on too long. Right now, though, House's indulgence feels like justification, like House saying it's OK for him to seek out closeness. It's just part of the recovery process.
They eat breakfast together every morning, even now that House has gone back to work. Wilson makes small feasts; House never says it's too much. Over the course of two weeks, they eat eggs scrambled with two kinds of freshly grated cheese and tomatoes and roasted green chili peppers; they eat hash browns with bell peppers and onions; they eat maple-crusted sausage and peppered bacon. They eat pancakes and waffles and cinnamon rolls. Wilson bakes bread and they eat that, too, as toast and then as French toast. He works his way through the thin breakfast section of the only cookbook in House's collection. After he's made pancakes twice in a row, he waits for House to leave for work and then Wilson calls his own mother for her biscuit recipe.
"How are you?" she asks.
"Fine," he says. He feels pretty good, really, except he gets tired. Sometimes, when House leaves for the gym, Wilson goes back and lays down in House's bed again for an extra hour. He wants the biscuit recipe because the biscuits freeze well, and he'll be able to heat them up fast in the mornings while House is showering.
"I've been thinking about you," his mother says. Her voice is low and heavy and emotional. "I worry."
Wilson closes his eyes. "I'm home now," he reminds her. "Greg is keeping a close eye on me." Which is true. Wilson knows House is watching him closely, monitoring his progress. This is how he knows that soon, House will make him back off. It's a little amazing that House has allowed Wilson to cling for this long.
"Well, for that I am grateful," she says. His parents love House. They find him charming and old-fashioned, "a serious doctor," in his father's words. "Thank him for me. Does he like banana bread? I could send some."
"I'm sure he would like that," Wilson says. His voice sounds small across the line. He doesn't like to talk on the phone; it makes him feel anxious. "Could you also tell me the biscuit recipe?"
His mother tells him the recipe and asks him to call more often. Wilson presses his hand against his neck, seeking the warmth of his blood. He hurries off the phone and sits quietly at the dining room table for a moment. May sunshine streams in through the window, and Wilson leans into the warmth. He's cold most of the time, too, all of this part of his anemia. House has proposed iron supplements, but they upset Wilson's stomach. Right now, adding weight is still important. His mother's biscuits call for real, unsalted butter. They'll be a great help.
He sits and thinks about the biscuits and what he'll need from the store to make them -- the butter, for one, and he's not sure there's any more baking powder -- and then he starts to think about the grocery store and the world outside. He hasn't left the condo since coming back from the hospital. House hasn't pushed this; Wilson thinks he may not even have noticed it, yet, or that he may think it has to do with Wilson's physical difficulties. Maybe it is that, some, maybe it is that it takes so much energy to walk across the room, but it's also that he doesn't want to leave. He is comfortable just where he is. The reason he doesn't think about his attackers anymore is that he feels safe here, with the door double locked and House always around. The condo is enormous, really, two bedrooms, a living room, two bathrooms, a whole kitchen and dining room. Wilson can sit in any of these rooms for hours and not be bothered.
Sometimes, he still fades back into the cell. If it gets too quiet, or too still, if he feels too alone, if he gets too cold, sometimes, things get a little blurry. It's not every day, anymore, but every once in a while. The world closes in, and he has to do what he did in the cell: find the corner and keep his back pressed to two walls at once. From there, he feels the comfort of seeing the widest space possible in front of him. Sometimes that's enough, just being reminded that he's back in the world. And sometimes, like today, it has the opposite effect. Everything is overwhelming and troubling, and even the six chairs at the dining table are chaos, and the rumbles from the street beyond are too loud, and he has to duck his head and tuck back inside of himself for a while. He doesn't miss the cell, not at all, not really, except for in these moments when he thinks the world is too big and too much and too soon.
House comes home from work a little early, 4:30. He walks in but doesn't call for Wilson -- he's often napping at this time of day, and House doesn't want to disturb him. Wilson is still recovering, after all, and rest is important. House throws his jacket over an armchair and walks past both bedrooms, checks both bathrooms. No sign of Wilson. His heart picks up, just a little, and he goes back to the living room. No Wilson. No Wilson in the kitchen, either, though House sees the cordless phone lying on the counter, next to a piece of paper with Wilson's scratchy handwriting. And then, he sees Wilson, scrunched up in the corner of the dining room, his head bowed on his knees. There's a chair pulled out from the table, but nothing else in the room is out of place. No scary monsters; no men with knives or guns.
"Hey," he says, kind of loud, and Wilson jerks, just slightly. He looks at House as though across a great distance. Wilson is still wearing the sweats he'd worn that morning to breakfast. "Wilson, what are you doing down there?"
His eyes widen, a little, and House watches him surfacing. "What?" he says. His voice is thin, high, barely a whisper.
"What are you doing?"
Wilson flinches, rubs his face. He looks small and afraid. Afraid of House, probably, towering over him as he is, but House can't back off. He stares, steps closer, barely fights the urge to nudge Wilson with his foot. He has to snap out of this. "Wilson?"
"I was -- cold," Wilson says. He turns, a little, so that he's almost facing the wall, and stretches his legs out, slowly. He winces and rubs his calf.
So it's been a while, House thinks. "How long have you been down there?"
"I don't know," Wilson says. "Since I got off the phone."
House picks up the phone. The last call was at 11:02 a.m. "You've been sitting on the floor staring at nothing for the last five hours."
Wilson turns and gapes. "Have I?" The fear returns to his eyes, though not of House this time: probably directed at himself.
House holds out his hand, and Wilson takes it and stands up; House nearly pulls him over, he's so light. He's also unstable on his feet. "Dizzy?" House asks.
"My leg is numb," Wilson murmurs. His hand moves, catches House's forearm, like he's steadying himself. House knows better. He's seen Wilson wake from nightmares a couple of times since he's been back, and it's always like this: Wilson clings harder than even his usual clinging. It's normal, it's to be expected. House doesn't mind it, because he has an irrational desire to have Wilson closer. Maybe it's because every time, it's like getting Wilson back; maybe it's because, every time, he's worried that Wilson won't come back, that something has gone wrong.
"Couch?" House suggests. Wilson nods. He keeps his hand on House's arm, and when House sits down Wilson sits very close. House can hear his rushed breathing. "You want to tell me what happened?" Wilson shrugs. His eyes are closed and his hands are tucked into his sleeves. "Come on. You want to talk about it."
Wilson frowns. "You want me to talk about it?" he asks. "You care?"
"It's medically relevant," House says.
Wilson nods, after a second. He pushes his hands together, within their sleeves. "I was on the phone," he says.
"With who?"
"My mom."
House makes a note to call Mrs. Wilson in the morning, find out exactly what went down. Medically relevant, after all. "She called?"
"I called her. I wanted a recipe for biscuits."
This is a big step, Wilson using the phone, but House can't make a big deal of it because Wilson's head is bowed so low his chin is almost on his chest. House nudges him. "And then," he prompts.
Wilson shrugs. "And we hung up. And -- I was tired. I sat down."
"On the floor?"
"No, at the table. And -- it was bright." As he says the last, his voice goes up, just slightly. "I don't know why that bothered me, but it was so bright. And I was cold, and -- everything was too much, all of the sudden. I just -- " He pauses, just at the moment that House wants to hear more. House shifts, and the brush of his elbow seems to remind Wilson to continute. "I wanted it to stop."
House clears his throat. Stop, he thinks, and his stomach turns. He watches Wilson's shoulders rise and fall with his breath. "I need to know," he says, his voice going low, "if you're suicidal. You have to tell me."
"No," Wilson says. It takes him a moment. "I don't think so. I don't think about -- that."
"What do you think about?"
"I don't know," Wilson says. "Nothing."
"But you want things to stop."
"God, yes," Wilson says, and he puts his head in his hands.
House's arm feels heavy, awkward, as he lifts it, but he does it anyway, and he puts it around Wilson's shoulders and Wilson presses in against him so fast it's like he was expecting it. He's crying, House can feel that, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. "Wilson?" he says, quietly. "Jesus, Wilson."
"Sorry," Wilson says. His hands are clenched in House's shirt, against his ribs, and House's arm is trailing down his back, a straight line next to his bumpy spine. He is shivering and sobbing, and House doesn't know how they got here, to this moment, or how they can get out of it. He's been so sure that Wilson is getting better, but things can come out of nowhere. That's always the truth in medicine.
"I don't know how to help you," House admits. It takes everything out of him, to admit this. To say that he doesn't know the cure, that he can't see a solution, that he wouldn't be able to follow the map even if he had one.
"It's OK," Wilson murmurs. He stays close. "I'll be OK, I think I'll be OK."
House closes his eyes. He thinks, you are a doctor. What are you missing? But it's not a case, it's Wilson, close against his side, Wilson whose breath is warm and too wet, Wilson who is thin and shivering and still spending part of his time living in a cement cell. House clears his throat. There's only one thing to do, then: basic medicine. Treat the symptoms. "We can get you some anti-anxiety medication," he says. Wilson nods, his head falling finally to House's shoulder. "I'll figure this out," House whispers, talking to himself.
"How?" Wilson asks. It's the old Wilson and the new all at once, the helpful and the helpless. House tips his head to the side and his cheek rests on top of Wilson's head, and he hopes this closeness can be an answer, for Wilson. It's not enough for House, but it's all he has to offer.
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